


Epilogue

by katherine_tag



Category: To The Hilt - Francis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-24
Updated: 2008-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine_tag/pseuds/katherine_tag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris visits Al at the bothy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twincy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=twincy).



> Thanks to CJK for her immense help at the zero-eth hour!

I came down from the hills, back to the bothy, to find Chris Young sitting on my doorstep. He was pushing buttons on his portable phone, no doubt trying to find a signal. A losing proposition, I could tell him.

"Hullo," I said, before he saw me.

He stood and folded his phone, eyes dancing in amusement, as always. "So that was you, wheezing about up there?" he asked, pointing toward my bagpipes.

"It's relaxing," I said, unlocking the new door Jed had insisted on, after the four thugs and Zoë Lang.

Chris followed me in and watched in uncharacteristic silence as I packed the pipes away with care and slid them under the bed. I sat on the bed and looked at him. He looked as he always had, under the skinhead, the secretary, the chauffeur. Light brown hair cut short, high cheekbones. Bright brown eyes. I was glad to see him.

Finally, he rocked back on his heels and said, "Aren't you the least bit surprised to see me?"

I laughed, hiding a wince. My cracked ribs had mostly healed, but playing the bagpipes, it seemed, had aggravated the injury. "Not really," I said. "I imagine you talked to Emily."

"Your wife," he said.

"Yes." I stood and waved a hand round the room. "Would you like a tour?"

He grinned. "I can see fine from here."

"Well, in that case," I said, "would you like some paella?"

He helped me chop things and then stood with me, shoulder brushing mine, at the tiny camp stove I had squeezed onto the table, amid the clutter of paint and jam jars of brushes.

I hadn't seen anyone from London since I had left my mother's house to stand with Himself under the onslaught of Zoë Lang's zealous search for the Kinloch Hilt. The Hilt itself had stayed where it was, Himself declaring its hiding place sufficient for the time being, and me to be "a right clever bastard." He had gone off to his castle with Jed in high spirits, and I had sent my painting of Zoë Lang with them. Despite Jed's precautions, I wanted it safe. I hadn't painted anything since, not even golf.

Normally I minded the intrusion of reality into my artist's solitude, but I found having Chris in the bothy was comforting, somehow. My shoulders relaxed, when I haven't even realized I had been tense. "Did you walk here?" I asked. I hadn't seen a car.

"Hitched." Chris finally moved away, sitting in the armchair and studying his fingernails. "Nice lady. I figured you could give me a lift back to the station."

"Cheeky," I said, smiling.

"I thought I'd bring you my bill in person, instead of trusting it to the bloody post," he said. "Explain any charges."

"Oh, am I going to have questions?" I scooped out half the paella onto my only plate and walked it over to him.

"It's all part of the Young &amp; Uttley tip top service," he said.

We ate in companionable silence, me staring at the three blank canvases laid out on my easels and thinking longingly of less complicated days. When I had agreed to take the Kinloch Hilt and hide it, I had never imagined how things would spiral from there, ending with me on a grill in Oliver Grantchester's yard. But I didn't regret anything I had done for Ivan. I had agreed for my mother's sake, and I had persevered for Ivan's sake. In the end, I had discovered how far my stubborn pride could push me. If it hadn't been for Chris -

I looked over at him. He was shoveling paella into his mouth with intense concentration. I thought about his many disguises, and was glad he had come to me only as himself, without feeling the need to hide.

He caught me looking and winked. "Nice place you've got here."

"It's a bit roomy," I said as modestly as I could manage.

He laughed and set his empty plate on the floor. "Doesn't it get lonely?"

"Most people think I'm mad," I said. "Messing about with paints in the Scottish wilderness, no electricity, no phone. But I can't seem to live without it."

He seemed to be struck by my honesty and was silent for quite a while. I busied myself with cleaning up the food and setting the pan and plate in a bucket of water to soak.

"Al," Chris said quietly, "I can't help but think this was my fault."

"Don't be ridiculous." I moved to sit next to him on my bed. "You saved me."

"But -"

"No," I interrupted firmly. "It was not your fault. If anything, it was my own pride and stubbornness that got me into that mess."

"May I ... see?"

I looked at Chris in confusion. His normally expressive face was stony. "Your back," he clarified.

I only hesitated a second before I pulled my shirt over my head. Turning, I sat with my back to him, shirt in my lap, and heard his soft intake of breath.

"Oh," he said, and then I felt his cool fingers on my skin, lightly tracing the scar tissue. It had only been a few weeks, but the burns were healing well, so the doctors told me. I forgot about them for long stretches of time, until I moved the wrong way, or I sat back in a chair.

I felt his warm breath on my shoulder before his lips pressed into my skin. I wondered why I wasn't more surprised at the thrill that went down my spine. Perhaps we had been moving toward this moment since we met. He put his hand on my shoulder and kissed the ridge of my spine. I covered his hand with mine. He moved closer and moved my hair out of the way so that he could place a gentle kiss on the side of my neck.

"Is this ..." he asked softly.

In reply, I turned my head and met his lips with my own.

\--

The next morning I woke before Chris. I slid out of bed without waking him and threw on some clothes. Miraculously, I wanted to paint, but first I wanted to feel the wind on my face and play the pipes.

The air was icy as I walked briskly up the hill, my breath steaming in front of me. My fingers were stiff with the cold, but I warmed them up with a slow, simple tune. I wanted to play a dance, or a jig, something celebratory to match how I was feeling, but my will exceeded my skill set. I played marches instead, trying and failing to match the elation I had felt upon seeing Chris next to me.

It was strange. I still loved Emily, and always would. But this thing with Chris was new to me, and still exciting. He had caught me by surprise, and yet I hadn't been surprised. As I had thought the night before, we had been moving toward this moment since we first met in his office all those weeks before.

My elation was squashed, though, as when I got back to the bothy, Chris had disappeared. I looked at my neatly made bed in bafflement. There was no sign he had been here at all.

On my table, conspicuously placed next to my clean brushes, was a note. "Al," it read. "I know you need your space. Chris."

I put the note down and sat heavily in my chair. The blank canvases were just blank canvases again. Woodenly, I readied my paints and laid down a layer of pale green on the first canvas. It grew into a brooding lake, hemmed in by the mountains of my childhood, storm clouds just hinting at the farthest edge. This painting had no deep Scottish symbolism from my country's bloody heritage. It was more of an expression of my inner landscape, bleak and dark. I hadn't admitted it to anyone else, but I had woken up in a cold sweat every night since Grantchester, except for the night I had spent with Chris. His solid presence next to me had calmed the night terrors.

The whole day was gone when it was finished. I rinsed my brushes and made sure the lids were tight on the paints I had used, then made myself a sandwich and ate in front of it, staring at the depths of the water I had painted and trying not to think.

It was no use. I tossed and turned that night, and went to the train station at the first hint of light in the morning. I waited impatiently on the platform for close to an hour, unable to sit, but instead pacing back and forth, mind running around in circles. I wasn't even sure why I was going to London, only that I needed to go.

The train ride seemed interminable. I started out the window, clenching my hands together in white-knuckled impatience. I caught a cab at the station, and damning the cost, went straight to Chris's office. I realized I had no idea where to look for him, other than that one place.

Luckily, he was in. "We're closed," he said as the bell on the door jangled behind me.

"Chris," I said, and stopped. I didn't know what else to say. My normally glib tongue seemed to have deserted me.

"Oh," he said, sounding at once small and vulnerable. He stood and came out from behind his desk, coming close enough to touch me, but not reaching out.

"Why did you go?" I asked, hoping I didn't sound too plaintive.

"I would have thought my note was explanation enough," he said stiffly.

"Chris," I said again, and touched his face.

"Aw, shit," he said, and pulled me into a hug, burying his face in my shoulder.

"I can't live anywhere else," I said into his hair, rubbing his back. He smelled like soap and London air, earth and concrete and a press of people. It didn't feel suffocating at all.

"I've got a life here," he said, but he didn't pull away.

It was the same conversation I had had with Emily, years ago, though there wasn't months of silence and hurt behind it. I had tried with her, for her sake, but this time I knew there was nothing I could try that would make me happy living anywhere but on my own, alone with my paints. Mad Alexander.

"You're welcome any time," I said. I tipped his face toward mine and kissed his smiling lips.

"You'd only get into trouble here," he said, and kissed me again.

"Very likely," I agreed.

He pulled away and grabbed his jacket from the chair, setting it spinning. "Come on, then," he said. "Let me show you my flat."

"Only fair," I agreed solemnly. "After all, you've seen my inner sanctum."

He looked at me fondly. "Inner sanctum?"

"No one else is welcome there," I said, and meant it, sincerely.

Raising his eyebrows, he said nothing, but I could see how happy I had made him.

We went out the door into the morning. Not touching, but close, just the same.


End file.
